"Now watch this." Ben lifted the wood and carved a quick addition. "This mark means safe journey home."
Without hesitation, both animals turned and moved into the darkness as if following an invisible path. Their hoofprints in the snow lined up precisely.
"They understand." I pressed my hand to the cold glass where the frost pattern lingered.
"They recognize the intention behind the marks. Like how you understand music without having to read every note." Ben turned me to face him, his hands settling on my hips. "Ready to try it yourself?"
"I don't know how—"
"Trust your body." He pressed the smallest chisel into my palm.
We moved back to the workbench. Ben positioned a fresh piece of pine in front of me and stood behind, his chest against my back, his hands guiding mine to the wood.
"Don't think about the shape," he murmured against my ear. "Think about what you want to say."
I closed my eyes. What did I want to say? To the reindeer, the magic, and whoever was listening?
The answer popped into my mind:I'm here. After all this time, I'm finally here.
My first cut was hesitant, but the wood seemed to guide the blade. Each stroke wasn't about imposing something—it was about discovering what was already there.
The chisel moved in curves I didn't plan—spiraling inward, then opening outward, like arms reaching for an embrace.
When I finished, Ben traced the marks I'd carved. His breath caught.
"Alex."
"What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing wrong." His voice cracked. "You carved the signal for 'safe harbor in storms.' It's the same mark Johan made the night he found his way here."
I stared at the marks my hands had somehow known to make. The pattern looked like home felt—warm, welcoming, certain.
Ben's finger paused at the edge of the pattern. "Alex. What's this?"
"What's what?"
He traced a small flourish I hadn't consciously carved—a curling line that looped back on itself like a ribbon unfurling. "This isn't part of the safe harbor mark. Johan's journals don't have anything like it."
"I don't know. My hands moved on their own."
Ben crossed to the workbench where my mother's music box sat. He turned it over carefully, examining the base—not the marks he'd added, but the older wood beneath.
"This flourish." He held the music box up to the light. "It's here too. Carved into the original base, under a century of polish. I noticed it when I started the restoration, but assumed it was decorative." He looked at me with wonder. "Alex, this predates my work by decades. Maybe longer."
Ben stared at the music box, then at my carving, and then back again.
"Your grandmother didn't just understand our family's marks," he said slowly. "I think she had her own."
Ben led me to a door at the back of the workshop that I hadn't noticed before. His touch on the weathered wood made symbols flare briefly—not quite glowing, more like frost patterns catching moonlight.
"My great-great-grandfather built this room. It's where we've kept our most important projects."
The door swung open. It was warmer inside, permeated by the deep, honeyed scent of wood worked with intention for over a century.
Worktables lined the walls, each holding something extraordinary—a delicate clockwork carriage no larger thanmy palm, its tiny wheels covered with flowing marks, and a collection of sleigh bells that hung motionless.
What drew my attention was a sleigh.
